


What My Heart Just Yearns to Say

by Gavilan



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Allosexual Jaskier, Asexual Character, Asexual Geralt of Rivia, Asexual Pining, Asexuality, But he's trying, But in a positive context, Chest Hair, Close-mouthed kissing, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Fluff, Geralt of Rivia sucks at words, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Getting Together, How did I forget to tag the fluf??, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier's Chest Hair, Kissing, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Platonic Cuddling, Romantic Cuddling, Sensual Attraction, Sensuality, Sex favorable asexuality, Sleepy Cuddles, There were TWO beds, because that really needs to be a tag, but no sex in this fic, mentions of sex workers using canon-typical language, non-explicit mentions of sex, non-sexual romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24266506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gavilan/pseuds/Gavilan
Summary: Geralt wants Jaskier, but not the way he knows he's supposed to. Featuring cuddles, ace pining, Jaskier's chest hair, kisses, and more cuddles.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 90
Kudos: 701





	What My Heart Just Yearns to Say

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Fair by The Amazing Devil. This song was so perfect for this fic I actually had too many choices for a title, which was a first.  
> Thanks to [queerfantasycharacter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnejellyfish/pseuds/nocturnejellyfish) and [Llama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412) for being awesome betas and helping me figure out how this fic needed to end.  
> This fic is part of my [#OwnVoices](https://www.brodartbooks.com/newsletter/posts-in-2019/what-is-ownvoices) New Year's Resolution!
> 
> NOW WITH AMAZING COVER ART BY [BOOKSCORPION](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookscorpion/profile)!

The thing about Jaskier is that he’s always _touching_. A hand on his shoulder, leg brushing against his when he sits down at an inn, bumping him amiably in the arm when Geralt goes too long without giving a response to his endless stream of chatter. And then as autumn heads toward winter, and it becomes too cold to sleep on opposite sides of the fire, Geralt wakes each morning to find the bard tucked up against him, soft brown curls tickling his nose. Sometimes Jaskier is tucked into Geralt’s arms, back warming his chest. Sometimes he’s wrapped around Geralt, his arms tucked around him and his hand resting on the exposed skin of his chest where his loose sleep shirt slid aside. Geralt thinks his favorite is when he wakes up with Jaskier nestled against his chest, soft cheek pressed against his chest and a leg swung over Geralt’s hip as if he is trying to stay as close as possible. Geralt doesn’t try to get up when he wakes in that position. All that will accomplish is sleepy muttering and an even tighter grip. 

It’s not a problem, exactly. Geralt likes the touch, and he’s been travelling with Jaskier long enough that his scent is added to the list of safe people in his brain, so he doesn’t jump or start when Jaskier reaches out. So it’s not a problem. It’s just really fucking confusing. Geralt can’t remember the last time he was touched so softly. Well, he can, it was the last time he visited a brothel. Correction: he can’t remember the last time someone he wasn’t paying for the privilege touched him in any way beyond the practical necessities. Wrestling with Eskel might come close, he supposes, but it was never this soft, gentle touch. It just wasn’t the witcher way. 

Geralt’s relationship with touch is… complicated. He’s not normal, he knows that much, though whether it’s the mutations or just something intrinsically broken about him he doesn’t know. He knows that he’s never looked at anyone, woman or man, and thought “yes, I want them.” He knows this lack of interest makes a relationship impossible. He’s tested that knowledge thoroughly. 

But he likes sex, likes the touch, the feel of skin sliding on skin, the smell of his partner’s sweat, tinged sweet with exertion without the bitterness of fear. So he visits whorehouses whenever he starts to get uncomfortable in his skin. It works. The women don’t expect him to find them attractive, or kiss them passionately, or express any sort of desperation the way a lover does. He gives them coin, they smile and undress with him and touch him. He makes sure they get off, sometimes even gets off himself. He knows how to pretend if his dick betrays him. And even if they notice, the women don’t care as long as he’s satisfied. 

He pays extra to lay in bed with them afterward. They ask after his scars, and he doesn’t mind telling the stories because asking usually means touching, and he likes the feel of their soft hands over his skin. Whores are gentle, and kind, and they don’t expect anything other than what he has to offer. 

So when Jaskier starts to touch him, to seek out that skin contact whether it’s a hand on his shoulder as they take turns in the bath or his cheek pressed against Geralt’s chest where his shirt slipped open as they sleep, Geralt is torn between happiness and worry. He likes the little touches, likes Jaskier, as much as he can’t say so in words. But he knows such gestures inevitably lead to expectations. Jaskier will start wanting more, expect passion and compliments and sex, and no matter what Geralt does he will never, ever be enough. 

But months go by, and Jaskier never starts demanding, just keeps up his steady stream of touch to match his steady stream of words. They part ways for the winter, Geralt to Kaer Morhen and Jaskier to Oxenfurt, and when they join back up Jaskier is still just as puzzling, touching Geralt so gently and expecting seemingly nothing in return. And he still flirts shamelessly with everyone he meets, and he goes to bed with someone most nights they spend in civilization, comes back smelling of that sweet sweat of fearless exertion. It’s warm enough now, as spring turns toward summer, that they don’t share a bed roll. Geralt still wakes up more times than not with an armful of sleepy bard, rolled over and nestled against him in the night. Eventually they stop trying to maintain separate bedrolls. What’s the point when Jaskier is going to end up sweatily plastered to his side regardless? Sharing, of course, means they start to overheat, the body heat that was so wonderful in the fall becoming torture as summer inches nearer. Jaskier’s shirt is undone more each day, revealing a layer of soft, wiry hair that Geralt finds himself oddly captivated by. He wants to reach out and touch, run his hands over Jaskier’s chest and feel the shifting textures of hair and skin, the warmth of Jaskier’s skin on his. But he doesn’t. Because touching Jaskier like that will lead to the end of all the touching. It’ll lead to kisses and sex and frustration when Geralt can’t give back that elusive something Jaskier will expect from him. So Geralt keeps his hands to himself and wraps Jaskier in his arms at night and is thankful he has this much. 

Geralt’s first clue that his peaceful time with Jaskier is coming to an end is that Jaskier spends less and less time pursuing “fine company,” as he puts it. More often than not, Jaskier comes back from a night of singing smelling only of the tangy sweat of performance. He fits himself into Geralt’s arms as if the inn’s bed is just another bedroll. Geralt pretends to be asleep so he won’t have to face the time Jaskier decides to roll over and break down Geralt’s careful illusion with a kiss. It’s not that he doesn’t want to kiss Jaskier. He likes Jaskier’s mouth, always talking and singing and smiling. He thinks he’d like to kiss Jaskier, touch his skin with all the reverence he stores up deep inside as the bard lies sleeping in his arms. But then Jaskier will fall in love, will expect things, will be disappointed.

When it’s been three months since Jaskier last took a lover, Geralt can no longer ignore the signs. Jaskier is falling in love with him, and it will only ever hurt them both. He spends one last night holding Jaskier close, breathing in the scent of his hair, feeling his warm breath against his chest, the weight of his leg tossed over his hip. They’ll be in a town tomorrow night, so he can leave with Jaskier safely surrounded by civilization. He will miss the warmth of their connection, but far better to cut it off now than after Jaskier has tried to love him and found him wanting. 

“No,” Geralt says that night, when Jaskier comes back from his performance, smelling only of himself, and goes to join Geralt in one of the beds. Geralt made sure there were two tonight, something he stopped bothering with months ago. 

Jaskier freezes, expression nonplussed. 

“No… what?” he asks.

“I wish to sleep alone from now on,” Geralt says, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

Jaskier’s expression gets even more confused. “You… I’m sorry, what?”

“I don’t want to sleep together anymore,” Geralt grinds out. It’s a lie, but it’s better than the truth. He can barely explain the truth to himself. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, hurt showing in his eyes before his face goes blank. “Oh, okay, I see. I’m so sorry, I never meant to… that is, I’ll just, um, go over here, yeah,” he says, gesturing toward the second bed with his ever expressive hands as he stumbles toward it. And that’s not right, Geralt’s bard is nimble, elegant, he doesn’t stumble. 

Geralt’s heart breaks even further but he forces himself to remain neutral, just grunts and lays down under the covers in his cold, lonely bed. He can hear Jaskier shuffling around behind him, nightly motions as familiar to him as his own. The shuffle of cloth as he unlaces his doublet the rest of the way and hangs it over the edge of the bed, the thump of his boots falling to the floor, the clink of his water bottle as he grabs one last drink, and then the rustle of the sheets as he slips into the bed. 

A long silence goes by. Geralt deepens his breathing to imitate peaceful sleep, but he can hear that Jaskier isn’t sleeping any more than he is. Eventually, Jaskier breaks the silence, voice smaller than Geralt has ever heard it.

“Can you tell me what I did?” he asks, and the pressure of despair he feels makes Geralt wish his mutations hadn’t stolen his ability to cry. He swallows hard and searches for the words to explain. He owes his friend that much at least.

“You didn’t do anything but what’s in your nature, Jaskier. You’re not wrong, don’t think that. I just…” Geralt trails off and sighs. “I noticed, well, that you seem to be interested in me. Um, romantically. And, well…” he trails off again. 

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier fills the silence. “I tried not to show it, you’ve been perfectly clear you’re not interested in men. Or possibly just me, I suppose. I swear I did everything I could not to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know,” Geralt responds after a long silence. “You’ve been wonderful. I’m just…” he pauses, looking for the right word. “Broken,” he said finally. 

Geralt hears a shuffle of cloth and creak of wood as Jaskier sits up in his bed. “I don’t understand. How are you broken?” he asks. 

Geralt blows out a harsh breath as he searches for the words. “I can’t love you back,” he says eventually. “It’s not in my nature.” 

“Wait, is this one of those ‘scary witchers don’t have emotions’ things?” Jaskier asks, incredulity coloring his tone. “Because I think you’ve proven pretty conclusively that that’s nonsense.” 

“Not… exactly,” Geralt says. 

Silence fills the room. He can hear the soft sounds of Jaskier toying with the edge of his shirt, waiting for him to elaborate, but Geralt simply doesn’t have the words to explain. 

“Fuck,” he mutters eventually, and gives in to the temptation to roll over.

Jaskier is sitting on the edge of his bed, staring down at his constantly moving fingers. He looks confused, and lost, and Geralt desperately wants to gather him up in his arms, hold him tight and tell him he didn’t mean it. But that would only lead to the exact problem Geralt is trying to avoid.

He’s never seen Jaskier so quiet before. Part of him is glad he’s giving him the space to find words, but an equal part is terrified for how much he’s hurting him. He should never have let it get this far. 

“It just won’t work,” he says finally. 

Jaskier’s eyes flash up to meet his at that, a spark of his usual fire returning. “Why not? If you just don’t want me, that’s fine. I haven’t pushed you before and I won’t start. But that doesn’t seem to be what you’re saying.” He crosses his arms. “Why, Geralt?” 

“I’m not normal,” Geralt says, trying to soften the harsh anger at himself that rises as he wishes desperately he could be what Jaskier wants. “I don’t _want_ people. Not the way you do.”

Jaskier’s brows furrow. “Wait, you mean sex?” he asks. 

Geralt huffs and nods. It’s not quite right, but it’s close enough. 

“But I’ve seen you go to brothels, you-” Jaskier shakes his head and interrupts himself. “Not important. Do you really think that’s all I want? Geralt, if all I wanted is sex I could have that any time I want. You know this, you’ve watched me often enough. Sex is great, don’t get me wrong, but that’s hardly the entirety of a relationship!” 

Geralt shakes his head. “It’s not just sex. Or not exactly sex…” he heaves a deep breath, Jaskier’s soft scent flooding his senses. “I’ve tried to have relationships. It’s all well and good until they realize I don’t love them the way they love me. Sex is fine, I like sex. But they want something I can’t give them.”

Jaskier shifts on the bed as if he wants to reach out and touch him. “What? What can’t you give them?” 

No one’s ever asked before, waited with soft kindness for Geralt to try to find the words. 

“Passion,” he settles on. “They want something more from me, something they feel that I’ve never felt.” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “I have no idea what it is. But I’ve tried to give it, and I just can’t. I’m broken.” He shifts, sitting up and staring into Jaskier’s wide blue eyes. “I don’t want to wait until you’re completely entangled before I break your heart, Jaskier.”

Jaskier draws in a shaky breath. “Oh, it is far, far too late for that, dear.”

Geralt clenches his jaw. He knew he should have done this long ago. Should never have let his selfishness hurt Jaskier this way. But then Jaskier is continuing, in that same gentle, shaky voice. 

“But I don’t think you will break my heart. No, no,” he continues, cutting off Geralt’s protest. “So you don’t feel the same things as I do. Okay, what of it? As long as you feel something for me in your way, Geralt, and I really think this whole situation proves you do, what do I care whether it matches what I feel?”

Geralt sighs. “It’ll never be like your ballads,” he says. “I don’t love that way.”

“Right, passion,” Jaskier says, absurdly calm about it. “I’ve had passion. Gets me in no end of trouble, honestly. What do you think I want, Geralt?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt says, running his hands through his hair. “I never know what people want. I just know I don’t have it!” 

“Okay, why don’t I tell you?” Jaskier offers, and starts talking without waiting for a response. “I want to travel with you and not fear you’re going to send me away if you get cranky. I want to sleep next to you, touch you, be close to you. Kiss you, if that’s on the table. Sex would be great, but I know how to take care of myself if that’s not your thing.” He stands up while Geralt is blinking at the bluntness of that statement and slowly walks toward him. “I want to talk with you over our meals and watch you kill monsters and sing about you, sing about my love for you if you’ll let me. I want to get to know each and every little smile and frown till I can read you even when you’re being a surly bastard who won’t fucking talk to me.” Geralt can’t help but smile at that, and Jaskier’s whole face lights up in return. “See? There’s my wolf,” he says softly, and then he’s settling himself in Geralt’s lap and Geralt’s arms come around him and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. 

Jaskier stays in his arms for minutes that feel like hours, rubbing his hands over Geralt’s back in long, smooth motions. Geralt grips him tightly and buries his face in his neck, breathing in the scent he thought he would never smell again. 

Eventually, Jaskier straightens, though he stays wrapped in Geralt’s arms. 

“We already do most of that,” Geralt points out, and Jaskier’s eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“Yes, we do.”

“I…” Geralt hesitates. He doesn’t do well with words, not the way his bard does, but he wants to try. “You said kissing?” he manages. 

Jaskier licks his lips. “I did. Do you like kissing?”

Geralt nods, and Jaskier leans in, his breath brushing Geralt’s face. His lips are soft against Geralt’s, the smell and heat of his skin radiating as he holds the soft, gentle kiss for an interminable moment. Geralt likes kissing Jaskier even more than he’d imagined he would. He wants to do it again, to explore all the different ways Jaskier’s mouth can touch his, the taste and texture of him. 

Jaskier pulls back from the kiss, blinking at him, and Geralt realizes Jaskier can’t see him all that clearly in the dark room. Geralt can see from the flush on Jaskier’s cheeks that he enjoyed the kiss, but Jaskier can’t see what Geralt is feeling. Geralt reaches for words to tell Jaskier how much he liked kissing him, doesn’t find them, and leans in to kiss Jaskier again instead. 

Jaskier makes a soft noise against Geralt’s mouth and kisses back. The kiss stays light, mouths closed, and Geralt relaxes into it. He revels in the warmth of Jaskier’s flushed skin, the smell of his skin and breath, the press of his lips as he returns to the kiss again and again. Jaskier shifts until he is straddling Geralt’s lap without breaking the kiss. Geralt sighs in pleasure as one hand slides up into his hair, fingers running through the strands with the lightests of tugs. Geralt’s senses are too overwhelmed by the kiss for him to do more than cling to Jaskier as he surrounds him with scent and taste and touch. 

When they finally draw apart, the cold air rushing into the space between them is a shock. Geralt would happily smell nothing but Jaskier’s skin ever again. 

“Well, I’d say kissing is a definite yes,” Jaskier says faintly. Geralt hums in agreement. 

“Sleep with me?” Geralt asks, the words appearing before he even has to search.

“Of course,” Jaskier says, and stands so Geralt can shuffle under the blanket.

“Um…” Geralt starts as Jaskier moves to join him, and Jaskier freezes. This time he does have to search for the words. “Could you take your shirt off?” he manages, and Jaskier’s breath catches. 

“Only if you do the same,” he responds, already lifting his shirt over his head, and Geralt’s whole body feels warm imagining how Jaskier’s skin will feel pressed against his whole torso. 

Geralt sits up and takes off his shirt as fast as he can, not bothering to notice where it lands. Jaskier chuckles lightly, but Geralt can’t find the will to be embarrassed at his eagerness when Jaskier is sliding into bed next to him. He lays down with his back to Geralt and then snuggles close when Geralt cautiously wraps his arm around him. It’s nothing they haven’t done before, but now he’s allowed to enjoy it without the spectre of dread hanging over him. Somehow, Jaskier is okay with how Geralt is. And maybe it’s too good to be true, maybe after a few months Jaskier will start to mind that Geralt isn’t aroused by all this kissing and touching and doesn’t love him the way he should. But right now Jaskier is so sure, and Geralt can’t help but believe him, at least a little. 

Jaskier is pressed against him, touching skin to skin, and Geralt doesn’t even care that they’re going to be stuck together with sweat come morning because this feels incredible. Slowly, Geralt moves his hand up to Jaskier’s chest and strokes the hair there. The hair is coarse under Geralt’s fingers, and he wants to stay in this moment, running his hand over that soft, wiry texture forever. He hums with deep satisfaction. 

Jaskier hums back and relaxes completely into the touch. “Goodnight, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Hmmm,” Geralt replies, and falls asleep with Jaskier’s hair under his hands and his sweet, calm scent surrounding him. 


End file.
